


You're Standing in My Doorway (The I Saw You from Afar Remix)

by significantowl



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Canon Disabled Character, Cities, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Powerful Charles, Remix, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five cities Erik visits on the hunt for Shaw, five encounters with Charles.  Five times he passes through a doorway, and the one place he stays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Standing in My Doorway (The I Saw You from Afar Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ang3lsh1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lsh1/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You're standing in my doorway, seven cities ago](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073769) by [ang3lsh1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lsh1/pseuds/ang3lsh1). 



1.

Geneva is a city of mists and ghosts before the sun fully rises, a pale, translucent world.  Only a sliver of dark water is visible at the lake’s edge, left untouched by the rolling carpet of fog.  At this hour, the mountains beyond the city do not exist; like Geneva's rooftops and clock towers, the Alps have been lost in a shroud of white.

Erik's business at the bank is not precisely ordinary, but he’ll wait until ordinary business hours to conduct it.  His interest is not in deposits or withdrawals, but information; when the time comes, he will threaten, he will interrogate, he will get what he wants.  On the street, a warm pool of light spills out through the window of a snug cafe.  It’s the first he's seen open so early, and on impulse he ducks through the door to pass some time.

It's cozy inside, with a stone floor and timbered walls.  The menu scrawled on a chalkboard high above the counter is in French; there’s coffee, juice, pastries.  The owner comes forward, an elderly gentleman with a shock of white hair and thick-rimmed spectacles - no.  No, that’s not right at all.  Erik blinks, adjusting his eyes to the light in the shop, maybe, as the man comes properly into focus.  He's young, slightly more so than Erik, with soft brown hair and striking blue eyes that are most certainly not hidden by glasses - although perhaps that would be a mercy, because Erik feels pinned where he stands, breath fluttering in his lungs, a butterfly on a board.  

Erik is expecting _Bonjour_ or _Bienvenue_ , but the man says, “Hello,” in a smooth, polished English accent.  He’s quite close to Erik now, and surprisingly slight for someone who so easily commands attention.  Erik finds himself wondering what the man smells like; a breath later, he pulls in citrus and spice. 

“Good morning.”  Erik’s voice is rough in comparison.  Disused, and not just because of the early hour; it’s rare that he speaks without direct purpose.  On any other morning, in any other shop, a simple nod would have sufficed.

Today, he’s pleased the owner greatly.  The man has a smile like the absent sun, and it warms Erik right down to his core.  Instead of asking Erik for his order, he says, “Take a seat, please,” and whisks a heavy-laden tray onto the table Erik chooses.  A pot of tea, and two mugs; croissants and cream and a bowl of lush strawberries, the latter surprising in a city taking the first faltering steps towards spring. 

“I'm indulging myself, I'm afraid,” the man says, splitting a croissant open and slathering it with butter.  “In every way.  Do join me?”

And Erik, who had never intended to breakfast before his morning’s business, and definitely not on sweets, finds himself doing just that.  He eats the ripe berries while the shop owner does the same; the trail his thoughts follow, to the sweetness of the man’s plump lips, is as unavoidable as it is startling.

Erik's mind has run down the single, solitary track of revenge for so very long.

He says little over breakfast.  He's sure of it.  But when there's nothing but crumbs on the plates and dregs in the mugs, the man leans in close, and speaks as if Erik has given up every corner of his history.  "You have the brightest mind I've ever seen,” he says.  “And I see so many.  I simply had to meet you, Erik, and I'm very glad I did.  But I don't believe I want to see what you do next."

Geneva is beginning to awaken.  Erik is on the street, a trace of sweetness on his lips, the door of the cafe closed behind him, no light in the window.  He peers in, and thinks he catches a glimpse of white hair beyond the counter, a man moving arthritic and slow.  Kneading the day's bread, perhaps.  Maybe he’ll open up soon.

After a moment, Erik wonders why he's looking.  Why this cafe; why any cafe, when he's not hungry at all.

Erik moves through the city.  He has a job to do.

 

2\. 

Erik enters the bar.  He’s not thirsty, and his day is definitely not done; he’s still several hours away from the resort city the Swiss bank manager had named, after a painful and satisfying period of encouragement, as the last known address of Erik’s target.  But the door is open, and he steps through it nonetheless.

The bar is nearly deserted.  A young Argentinian woman with shining dark hair flickers out of sight, and in her place stands the young Englishman from Geneva, stacking glasses on a round tray.

He’d forgotten those eyes for a time.  Incredible.  He doesn’t believe he will do so again.

“You’ll have a whisky and soda,” the man says, looking delighted.  “And you’ll sit with me for a time.  Yes?”

“Yes,” Erik says.  The wooden chair is hard and smooth beneath him, and the tabletop has been worn down by many elbows, darkened with age and the residue of hundreds upon hundreds of glasses.  It must be rather a long time that he sits there; his muscles grow sore, tight.

Did they talk?  What about?  He doesn’t quite remember.

“You’ve seen so much cruelty,” the man says.  He shifts in his chair, an oddly stiff movement, and presses a warm, surprisingly calloused hand over Erik’s.  “More than anyone should ever have to endure.  I would burn it all away, but then you would be altered.  You would never choose it, and I…”  He shakes his head, rueful.  Confessing.  “I could never bear it.”

Empty glasses and an empty bottle on the table between them.  Dusk’s long shadows falling through the windows, and still, the bar is free of customers.

“There’s a night train to Villa Gesell,” the man says, and the clack-clack-clack of its wheels takes Erik into the dark.

 

3\. 

Coughing up water, sucking in air.   Rough boards under his back, splintered and warped, and far beneath them, the crash of the sea.  A bare lightbulb in the ceiling above, and all around, the stink of gutted fish: he is in a bait shop on a pier. 

Alive.  Erik is alive, for better or worse, and the man who killed his mother and made Erik everything that he is - he's free, with Miami far behind him.

A man kneels over him, speaking Spanish, his paunch brushing against Erik's side as Erik struggles to sit.  No, of course none of that's right.  Strong arms catch Erik, pull him against a compact frame.  A now-familiar voice says, "Gently now.  You nearly drowned." 

"I suppose I have you to thank for the fact that I didn't."  Bitterness laces every word, yet Erik makes no move to pull away from the circle of the man's arms.  It's the closest they've ever been.  It's comfortable, at least, it is for Erik - his wetsuit, dripping with cold seawater, cannot be having a pleasant effect on that woolen sweater.  

Can the other man feel the chill?  Could he truly taste the strawberries?  Is he learning the shape of Erik now?

"I see you won't keep yourself safe," the man says.  Fond, exasperated, resigned.  "Erik.  This won't do.  You mustn't believe that you're alone."

"Yes, I'm beginning to see that would be a mistake," Erik says dryly.

The quiet laugh he gets in return sends warm breath gusting over his temple.  "I feel as if I should offer you something to drink now.  Traditions are important, aren't they?  Unless I'm much mistaken, all that refrigerated case holds is weak beer and Coca-Cola." 

"Keep it.  Offer me your name instead."

The man's fingers tighten on his forearm.  "If that's something you truly want."

"I always know what I want," Erik says.

It comes as no surprise, now, to suddenly find himself walking along the beach, a lean shadow in the moonlight.  Behind him, the shop on the rickety pier is dark and locked up tight.

There's a name in his head. 

_Charles._

 

4\. 

Moscow is a gray, exhausted city, sighing wearily into dusk.  The working day has ended, the shops have closed, and those who have queued for hours carry home their bread and milk through the rapidly-darkening streets.  But passing through the door of the Party Officer’s club is passing into another world: one of warm and music and light, where the bar is as well-stocked as the Savoy in London and Erik is served the best vodka martini of his life in a cut-crystal glass. 

The bartender - shaved head, dark eyes, grizzled beard, starched white jacket - leans his elbows onto the counter, and is suddenly someone far more familiar, in a comfortable navy cardigan and khaki trousers.   Erik says, “This is no place for you."

“Shaw isn’t here,” Charles says quietly, ignoring this.  “But his lieutenant is.  She knows where to find him, but she's shielding it well.  I don’t think I can take it from her, from here."

Here, behind the bar, or here - _where_?  Not that it matters.  Regardless of how or why he draws Charles' attention time after time, this isn't Charles' concern; it's Erik's.  With a casual air, he sets down his glass and turns on his stool to look out at the room.

 _The woman in white,_ Charles says in his mind.

There are very few women in the club, but she would stand out regardless, in a daring dress with loose golden hair falling to her shoulders.  Charles adds, _Telepath_ , so Erik abandons all pretense and makes his way directly to the booth where she sits.  The man with her is clearly a senior Soviet official, by the rows of medals on his uniform; he is immaterial.

Erik closes a hand around one pale, tender wrist.  Immediately, she changes under his grip, becomes colder, clearer, harder than the glass that had held his vodka.  She is diamond.

 _Living_ diamond.  

Metal electrical wiring ripped from the wall nearby becomes Erik's weapon of choice.  He guides the slender wire neatly around her neck, wrapping tighter and tighter -

She cracks.

People are laughing, talking, drinking.  No one is watching.  No one so much as blinked when the wall burst open.  The Soviet official's eyes are glazed over, and he shows no signs of noticing that the woman he's cozied up to is on the verge of shattering.

"That's enough, Erik.  That's _enough_ , I can get in there now, let her _breathe_ -"  Charles is at his side now, fingers fixed to his temple, all color draining rapidly from his face.

Erik relaxes the pressure just enough, and for a long, frozen moment the woman stares at Charles and Charles' eyes bore back.  Then it's over.  Charles looks up at Erik and nods, exhaling; the woman grits out, "Hope it's worth it to you, sugar," through a cracked and broken mouth.

It's unclear whether her words are for Charles or for Erik.  It's also of little importance to Erik - his eyes are for Charles now.  Charles is turning away, shoulders slumping, face ashen.

He guides Charles back to the bar with a hand under his elbow.  A quick glance around the room proves they're still being ignored, as is the diamond woman, whose cracks must be knitting together with excruciating slowness.  

"I told you.  This was no place for you."

Charles presses his lips together.  "You say that as if I've never seen conflict.  As if I don't know war."  There's a brief flash in Erik's mind: bitter winter cold, pain and blood-soaked fatigues, deep in the hills of a peninsula half a world away.  Korea.  "And war is what he's planning, Erik.  It was in her mind."

“You don’t need to see any more.”  Erik wants to smooth away the pinched lines around Charles' eyes and the furrows in his brow with his fingers, with his lips.  “Charles.  Leave the rest to me.”

“I’ve made my choice, my friend.  You’ll make yours soon enough.  Be ready.”

Charles is fading before Erik's eyes, for the first time, he's fading, and Erik stretches out a hand, worried -

Outside, the streets of Moscow are cold, and the wind cuts like death. Erik takes a train to the airport.

 

5\.  

The waterfront bar in Old Havana appears abandoned from the street, with a thick layer of grime covering the windows and dim shadows and broken furniture inside.  But Erik pushes open the door anyway.  It’s where he needs to be.

He expects to see Shaw sitting alone at the bar, smoking a cigar, perhaps, curls of smoke rising lazily towards the ceiling.  He expects to see someone behind the bar, pouring him a drink - old man, young woman, it doesn't matter - someone who will become Charles.

Shaw stands in the middle of the room, hands clasped in front of him, alone.

Erik walks forward, one measured step after another.  He is in the same room as Shaw again, after all this time.  The man who shot his mother, who tortured and experimented on Erik.  He waits to see what Shaw will say.

“I’m afraid I don’t intend to let him speak,” comes a voice - _Charles'_ voice - and Erik stops in his tracks.  Charles is standing precisely where Shaw was, holding his posture.  Holding his ground.

A sound hitches from Erik’s throat.  He shakes his head.  No, no, no.

“He wants to say a great many things,” Charles continues, ignoring this.  “To apologize for what happened.  Not his actions - for the injuries along the way.  He wants to praise you.  It pleases him, what he’s made of you.  He's proud.”

“I’m going to kill him, Charles.”  Erik's voice echoes in the empty bar.

“Yes, I know.”   _I already made my choice._

“You have to leave.  Go - wherever you go.  You have to leave so I can kill him."

"But you can’t do it without me."  Charles is suddenly gone, but of course it's too good to be true.  Shaw stands before him again, and when he speaks it's with the voice that has echoed through Erik's nightmares for so many years, but the words are Charles’.  “I’ve seen the darkest corner of his mind.  I know why his lieutenant was in Russia.  I know what he’s planning in Cuba.  And I know every way he broke you.  Do it now.”

Erik is drowning.  The memories are the air he breathes, they're all he sees.  It's from hearing Shaw's voice again, it's from seeing his face, no, it must be something even more powerful than that.  It must be Charles.

The coin is in his hand.  It's been there so many times since that day when as a child he failed.  When he couldn't move it with his power.  When Shaw shot his mother for it.  

The coin moves.  Just as it should.  In this room, Shaw's office in the camps, it should always move, it should always obey Erik's every whim, and it does.... It rises into the air.  It glides forward so easily, but it takes effort to drill it through Shaw's skull, true, satisfying effort.

Shaw collapses.  He is gone.

Erik darts forward and falls to his knees, trembling fingers reaching for Charles, stroking his cheek, his temple.  His face is deathly white, his eyes are closed, but his brow is unmarked.  Erik clings to that. His brow's unmarked.

There is no room for satisfaction over Shaw's death.  There is only room for regret, and the fear gnawing at Erik's soul.  Erik wonders if Charles planned it that way.  

He talks, hoping it'll help.  Words spill out without care or thought, until Erik’s voice grows rough and hoarse in a way it never has, from overuse.  He touches his fingertips to Charles' pale lips to feel the breath still passing through them.

Charles doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't twitch, but at long last a whisper threads its way into Erik's head, and he closes his eyes, the better to hold onto the echo.

_Your creator is dead.  Who will you belong to now?_

Erik smooths his fingers through Charles' hair before rising to his feet.  The choice is simple.  He has a long way to go. 

 

+1. 

The house is a fortress, with solid stone walls soaring up into high towers and crenellations.  It's solid. It's forever.

The grand front doors are open wide, and Erik passes through without hesitation.

His footsteps echo on the hardwood floors.  The walls are paneled in warm, intricately carved oak; the furniture is heavy and opulent, the sort meant to last for generations.  The house feels like a castle in a children's tale, hushed and sleeping, but Erik knows that isn't so.  He walks alone to the very last room in the east wing of the ground floor.

Charles sits in a wheelchair facing the door.  There's no flicker, no shift; he is no one else.  Just simply, perfectly Charles.

Crossing the room quickly, Erik drops to his knees.  Everything is truer: the red of Charles' lips, the blue of his eyes, the warmth of his cheek under Erik’s hand.  His lips are laced with the darkness of tea, the sweetness of sugar, and the brightness of citrus; Erik will remember that first taste forever, he moves his mouth against Charles’, seeking more, _needing_ more.

When he has to pull back to breathe, there’s a whimper in his throat, and Charles lifts his beautiful fingers and traces the curve of Erik’s jaw.

"Charles," Erik says, looking up, studying the play of light over his face.  "Tell me.  Could you taste the strawberries?"

He's glad that Charles nods.  That he doesn’t try to spare Erik this.

“Then your head must ache,” Erik says, and rises up to press his lips to the center of Charles’ forehead, as if somehow, for once, his touch will heal.

When he draws back, Charles doesn’t let him go far, cupping his warm, calloused hand to the back of Erik’s neck.  “Some pain lingers, and some pain lessens.  You’ll see, in time.”

Erik nods, and Charles whispers, " _Mine_ ," in voice and in thought, and Erik nods again.  He dives forward, eager for another taste of those lips, or the freckled hollow of Charles’ throat, or the skin that lies beneath the buttons of his vest and shirt.  But Charles stops him with a strong hand to his shoulder, and he knows that is a pleasure that will have to wait.

It will come, though.  There's an image in his mind that isn't his own: Erik’s head buried in Charles’ lap, hands gripped firm around his waist, mouth suckling Charles’ soft cock until his chest is flushed with red and all it will take is a firm lick over each nipple to leave him shuddering.

But now - Erik is naked.  He's lying on his back on the room’s low sofa, the brocade slightly scratchy beneath him.  Charles is naked too, lying on his stomach, his beautifully fair shoulders nestled between Erik’s thighs.  He doesn’t remember how he got here; any awkward transitions have been smoothed away.  That needs to change, he thinks, but later, later, not when Charles is pressing light kisses to the tip of his cock, not when he’s mouthing his balls, those sweet lips ready to devour every inch of Erik whole.  To _indulge_ , Erik thinks - or maybe Charles does - it doesn't matter, because they want the same thing.


End file.
